Fragility
by colovaria-viridis
Summary: fragility /frəˈdʒɪlɪti/: noun - the quality of being easily broken or damaged; of being delicate or vulnerable. Tragedy hits Hermione and her young family like a storm, and while she tries to pick up the pieces of her once happy life, she finds solace in the most unexpected of places. Eventual Dramione! Angsty. Sad. M for language, death and some bedroom times


" _I am the keeper of fragile things and I have kept of you what is indissoluble_." - Anaïs Nin

"What I'm saying, Hermione, is that it's not a case of 'if' anymore, it's 'when' and I really need for you and… and the kids to-"

"You stop right there Ronald Weasley!" Her voice was harsher than she'd have liked, cracking on the last syllable of his surname, "Don't you say anything else!"

She was out of the door and into the corridor before he had a chance to argue with her, taking a deep breath that hit the back of her throat with that bleach-like smell she'd grown so accustomed to by now. In a daze, not really looking where she was headed – only knowing she needed to be out, in the air, to see the sky, to hear birds – she almost ran headlong into someone walking the opposite way.

Hermione mumbled an apology, hardly even raising her head to acknowledge who it was. There was no way she was going to give this hospital or any of the overly-sympathetic staff the chance to see her cry, but tears were already forming at the corners of her eyes, threatening to drop any second.

"Granger…?" The voice was unexpectedly familiar, and most certainly not welcome.

She looked up into the surprised eyes of Draco Malfoy, whose dark circles matched hers, whose hair could have done with a comb, whose clothes were rumpled like he'd slept in them. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but he didn't give her the chance. Instead, his mouth pressed into a firm line and with a brisk nod he moved past her. She numbly watched as a small boy, who couldn't be much older than her own little Rose, followed in his wake, his shockingly white-blond hair a reminder that Malfoy had a child too.

xxx

The roof terrace had become her usual spot when she needed a break in these hellish months. Bewitched to withstand any weather, she had stood as torrential rain fell around her in April, as the sun began to heat things up in June, watched while the leaves changed across the city in September. And here she was again, in what should have been bracing January air but was instead an insulated and artificial warmth, almost a year to the day since Ron had first been admitted.

He was only 27. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, putting a hand to her chest where the pain was. It was an empty pain, a hot, aching pain. Blinking once, twice, Hermione looked out at the grey buildings of West Croydon and the muggles going about their daily business, oblivious to the specialist wizarding hospital in their midst. To them, it was nothing more than a derelict old shopping centre awaiting demolition. Not for the first time, she entertained the wild, fleeting idea of packing up all she knew and starting afresh in the muggle world. But it was a foolish impossibility. Besides, what was happening to Ron wasn't exactly something you could run from.

It had started with headaches, not long after Hugo was born. His shrill cries were a pain for Hermione too, but for Ron they were something else entirely. He would shut himself away in his study, drapes drawn closed, silencing spells on the door, until the discomfort subsided. Then his magic began to suffer. At first it was funny, that he forgot the spell to disable the wards on their front door – he'd been locked out for two hours waiting for Hermione to return home from the supermarket – or that he somehow managed to explode the wireless when trying to change the station. But then it started to lose its humour rapidly, once he began having more and more of these episodes, followed usually by confusion and, more often than not, anger as well.

After Christmas, Hermione's mother-in-law asked her over for tea – no kids, no Ron, just her. And she asked her the most serious way, over a plate of freshly baked ginger biscuits, if she thought Ron might need to see someone. Hermione had laughed it off nervously, brushing crumbs from her lap and patting Molly Weasley's arm comfortingly. _Ron is just stressed_ , she had told her, _what with work and the children. There's nothing to worry about._

There's nothing to worry about.

Hermione smirked cruelly at her naïve former self, leaning with her hands against the railing of the terrace. If only she'd listened then, not waited until it was much too late. January 23rd. The day she arrived home late and flustered from the Ministry, looking forward to venting at her husband and listening to Rose blabber on about her day, cuddle her little Hugo and top it all off with a nice glass of wine. As she tapped her wand to the front door and the wards dropped to let her through, the first thing she heard was the baby. He was crying and crying inconsolably somewhere inside. She all but threw herself into the house, the door left ajar behind her. And she found Ron on the floor in the living room, face down and unmoving as Rose sat next to him, her little face taut with worry.

She had run to him right away, checked his pulse, checked to see if he was breathing. When the mediwitches arrived from St Mungo's ten minutes later, she watched with Hugo on her hip and Rose by her legs as they apparated her husband away. One floo journey to The Burrow to drop off the children, a hurried, hushed conversation with Mr and Mrs Weasley, a swish of her wand, the reception desk at St Mungo's, the ward for Imminently Dangerous and Unknown Maladies, room number 5. He looked so small in the hospital bed, his freckles standing out against his pale skin. His eyes were closed when she came in.

xxx

"Mrs Weasley, there are many options to consider here. Your husband can be referred to any number of specialists who will be more than capable of attending to him. There are, of course, _alternative_ routes as well, and although I wouldn't encourage it for most, in this case… the _muggle way_ could be given some thought."

"It's Granger."

"I'm sorry?"

"Ms Granger. I never… I'm not Mrs Weasley."

xxx

The coffee at this place, quite frankly, tasted like reheated water from the lake at Hogwarts, and Hermione couldn't stomach another cup of it. At least, that's what she told herself every time, until the next visit. She threw away the empty plastic beaker, and put her hands under the box on the wall marked 'Germ-A-Wayyy' to let it disinfect her before she entered the ward again. She'd never understood the excess of 'y's on the sign, nor the jaunty font it was written in, but it did the job she supposed.

Ron had his own private room, at the end of the corridor right near the patients' lounge. Before, he'd been able to get himself there and back at frequent points throughout the day, even after some of his more gruelling treatments, but it had been a while since then. Now, even reaching for his water glass seemed too much for him, his arms weak and limp at his sides. He was sleeping again when she returned, his head turned to the window. Hermione watched the slow, stilted rise and fall of his chest, noticing how thin he had become even in the last few weeks. He was nothing but skin and bone. Hugo even cried last time Hermione had taken him in to see his father, he was that unrecognisable.

She sat in silence, curled up in the armchair by his bedside, patiently waiting for him to wake. The clock on the wall ticked softly and she span her wand in her hands, staring down at it and thinking to herself _all this magic, and nothing can be done for him_. It wasn't the first time. She'd almost screamed it at Harry when he'd popped by a few weeks after the diagnosis, a bunch of flowers under his arm. That had ended with her sobbing on his shoulder and him suggesting they drink that bottle of Ogden's finest Harry had got them when Rose was born.

Even before Ron has spoken to her earlier, she felt like she had known. She had felt it coming, in her gut, in her bones. He wasn't improving, even though the healers were remaining positive about his case. The potions they had him on were debilitating, just as the muggle treatment would have been – she knew, she had hazy childhood memories of her great aunt in a hospital not dissimilar to this, hooked up to machines and skeletal.

"'Mione…" His voice was croaky, and she snapped out of her thoughts to pass him his water, holding the straw to his chapped lips.

He could hardly even manage a small sip. But he still smiled at her like nothing was wrong. She bit back a sob, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"Where did you go earlier?" He asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"Not far. You were sleeping when I got back and I didn't want to wake you." She looked down at her hands, the simple gold wedding band on her finger glinting up at her.

Leaning forward, she clasped his hand in hers.

"Can you send for the… the kids?" He asked, his eyelids flickering closed again as if just the energy of keeping them open was too much for him.

Brushing his hair from his damp forehead, she placed a shaky kiss there, her lips trembling against his cold, clammy skin. She wasn't ready. It was happening much too fast. But she did what he asked, stepping into the corridor and casting her patronus. It was well on its way to The Burrow by the time she got back to Ron's bedside.

xxx

It was 3am and raining when Ronald Billius Weasley, former auror, business-owner, father, husband, son, _friend_ , took his last breath. His mother was the first to notice, sat on his right-hand side with his hand in hers, the mirror image of Hermione opposite. Her wail woke Rose up where she'd been dozing on her uncle Harry's lap, and her sudden tears set Hugo off too, wriggling in his aunt Ginny's arms to reach out pudgy hands to his older sister. Hermione was still as a statue, unable to move a muscle. She couldn't cry or scream or throw herself onto the bed like Mrs Weasley. She couldn't slide to the floor, clutching her heart like Harry did, or even comfort him like Ginny, her hand on his shoulder while she sobbed openly.

Instead she sat still until everyone else had left the room, until everyone had gone to fetch the healer on duty and she was alone with her husband for the first time in hours. A tear rolled down her cheek and she swiped it away, a wry smile forming on her lips and she finally let go of Ron's hand, if only to reach up and touch his face. He looked peaceful, actually. His face was slack, and if not for the lack of breath, he could be napping like he always used to on the sofa in front of the flickering light of the 'telly-box'. Another tear fell, and she brushed it aside irritably, sniffing and patting down the bedsheets, smoothing them out across his chest.

"I… I love you, Ron." She said to the empty room, "I probably didn't say it enough, but I do. I did. I always will."

 _You have to go on_ , he had said to her earlier, _you have to keep going, for the kids. And for yourself, 'Mione. I want you to be happy_.

But she had shaken her head, thinking him the biggest fool imaginable for even considering she could be happy without him.

"We only got ten years, and it was meant to be forever. How could you leave me like this?" She whispered, shaking her head with a small, bitter chuckle.

The door creaked open, a familiar bespectacled face appearing there.

"Hermione, the healer needs you to sign something. I'm sorry, it's just uh, a formality."

She nodded once, standing up before taking one last backwards glance at the man she had loved with every fibre of herself.

"Yes, I'm coming Harry," She said softly, "I'm ready."

 **A/N:** this is my first foray into HP fiction, although I've written for years. I don't know why I never got into it before, seeing as it's my one continuous almost lifelong fandom. But anyway, please feel free to leave me a review. I would love some feedback, even if its a criticism... I'll never learn unless I'm told!


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